The Oven Mitts
by Licorice-Sama
Summary: I've always view Yamato as a tragic character. Which is why he's the star of this non-tragic fic! Probably could be PG, but I don't want to offend anybody. Just read this "tragic" love story, and laugh.


The Oven Mitts... Un Petit Histoire.  
  
By: Licorice-Sama  
  
Author's Note: At long last-- *runs hand through hair while in a broad- legged stance* The Oven Mitts! Teehee. Yama does it SO much better! ^.^ He's so pretty. *giggle* I'm a Matt fangirl at heart: always have been, always will be. This is to clarify on the references to The Oven Mitts I made in "The Phone Call". Hope you like it!  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Digimon, or any related characters or any related bull. I own The Oven Mitts and The Coca-Cola can. Although, the Coca-Cola Company does own Coke, so I don't really own that. I also own any random screaming monkeys... and the large tuner in band. I swear it's seducing me. LOL. Zoddie-Chan and I also own Daigon Ovens Inc. It came up in a story where Floo Powder was inhaled, and 'Diagon alley' came out 'Daigon Oven'... and the GROUP traveling via Floo Powder was transported into an oven. (Floo Powder is J.K. Rowling's.)  
  
Domo Arigato to: Maniacal Matt, because he's so nice and funny. Trumpet Amren cos he's funny, and to Jedi Master Sloan, because he's a dear-face.  
  
Dedicated to: Anyone who's ever had their true love taken from them by a household appliance. Et MattyBunny... parce qu'il aime sa télécommande! ^.^  
  
Rating: PG-13. It's a traumatic enough incident for the parties involved, but add in habitual cursing and it's even worse.  
  
NB: *...* Author's action. '...' thoughts. ~...~ emphasis.  
  
**************************************************************************** ********* "... Oh yeah, he was here. But he put an egg in his shoe... and beat it!" ~R. Higgins. **************************************************************************** *********  
  
It was supposed to be a nice, enjoyable Sunday afternoon. Just Yamato and Takeru playing video games, watching movies, and eating croissants. The only problem was, Yamato had to bake those croissants... and Takeru wanted to help.  
  
***  
  
"Are those croissants done yet, Matt?" T.K. asked innocently, stretching in his seat on the couch. Matt shrugged, getting out of his seat in the pine- green recliner.  
  
"They should be, I'll go check," Matt replied. He got up and went into the kitchen, and began scrounging for his oven mitts. He couldn't find them. He came back out, and quickly struck a wide-legged pose, his knees bent and his body leaned back a bit.  
  
"T.K., have you seen--" Matt ran a hand over his lovely, rather long, golden hair. "--The oven mitts?" T.K. looked up, startled, his Gilligan hat falling to cover his cherubic blue eyes and cheeks still pudgy from his 01 days. He promptly pushed it back up to look at his brother.  
  
"Uh yeah, of course I have, why?" T.K. asked.  
  
"Ok, then where are they?" Matt asked, almost impatiently, his lapis blue eyes narrowed in something close to suspicion.  
  
"In the oven, of course," T.K. replied. Matt's eyes widened and his pupils contracted several times smaller than average. His mouth hung open and he looked back and forth between his brother, and his shiny black, now smoking, Daigon oven.  
  
"TAKERU TAKAISHI! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?!" Matt finally screamed, rushing to his oven, and opening it, to see his beloved, blue, quilted oven mitts burst into flames and burn black. "MY OVEN MITTS!" he cried in distress, grabbing handfuls of his gorgeous hair, ready to pull it out.  
  
"Matt, calm down! They were just there so their wedding guests could witness their marriage to the Coca-Cola!" Takeru said matter-of-factly. He stood up and wealked into the kitchen behind his brother.  
  
"A damn Coke can is in there? And who the hell are the wedding guests?" Matt asked, furious at his little brother.  
  
"Yes, the Coke is marrying the Oven Mitts. And the croissants are their wedding guests," Takeru replied innocently enough. Yamato's head reeled. His own flesh-and-blood had murdered his beloved oven mitts, a Coke, and the croissants, because with the other things dying in there, the croissants didn't stand a chance of making it out alive.  
  
"The croissants are ruined," murmured Yamato, turning off the oven and sinking to the ground. Tears came to his eyes, and he hugged his knees to his chest. "My oven mitts... my beautiful oven mitts... are... dead."  
  
"There, there, Yamato," Takeru cooed reassuringly, "we can always get you new ones!" Matt's tears fell freely at this.  
  
"You don't understand! I loved those oven mitts! They were my heart and soul! We'd been through so much together... they shared my love of cooking, they shared ~my~ love! I loved them, Takeru, and you had to go and marry them off to the Coke can, who doesn't even love them, and kill them all! You're a fiend!" Matt buried his head on his forearms, sobbing.  
  
"I thought you loved Sora, though," T.K. tried to counter. Matt's head came up at the mention of the name. His fathomless eyes of lapis lazuli(1) filled with anger, betrayal, and of course, sorrow for his oven mitts.  
  
"What! You think I'd love that little skank who--"  
  
"Or Taichi!" T.K. amended quickly with the first possible yaoi response. Matt seemed to accept this, going back to melancholy.  
  
"Tai was just... there. He never meant as much to me as those oven mitts... and you killed them! Takeru, go! Go!"  
  
"But Matt, we still haven't played--" T.K. tried to protest, but Matt cut him off.  
  
"GET OUT OF HERE! YOU'VE DONE ENOUGH DAMAGE FOR ONE NIGHT!" Matt shrieked. He got to his feet, picking up a spatula and threatening to throw it if Takeru didn't leave.  
  
"OK, I'll go! I'll go!" T.K. was heading for the door, when in walked Malcolm Ishida, home from a long day of work.  
  
"Hey Matt, how was your day? Oh hi, T.K., how are you? What smells like burnt--- oh dear... Matt, are those the oven mitts?" Matt looked up at his father, gave him a withering glare, and ran sobbing to his bedroom. He slammed the door and locked it. He fell onto his messy bed, covered in black and purple bedclothes, with heartbroken sobs.  
  
"What's the matter with him?" Malcolm asked. T.K. imitated his brother's earlier stance.  
  
"The oven mitts," he replied, running a hand over his... hat. Malcolm nodded in comprehension and went to the fridge. He got out some leftovers and went to the table to sit down and eat.  
  
"Maybe you should have something to eat, T.K., just close the oven door. It smells like a French bakery burned down," Malcolm said. T.K. shrugged and did as asked, and Matt sobbed out his heartbreak until 2.00 am the next morning, when he wrote a lament for the oven minutes to the tune of 'Greensleeves'.  
  
.:*OWARI!*:.  
  
AN: *is proud of herself* Well, there you have it! The short, bittersweet and (well, semi-stupid) dorky story of the oven mitts! Sans Mary-Sues! WOOHOO! *very VERY proud* Note: (1) you know it's a sappy romance fic when a character's eyes are "lapis lazuli." Um... I g2g, but I wanted to tell you how proud I am of this cute little story. Hope you enjoyed, and if not, please tell me why... nicely, of course. Like everybody, I don't tolerate flames. If you're going to rant, do it like Mark Antony in "Julius Caesar" and PERSUADE me, or whatnot, and don't froth at the mouth and make an ass of yourself. Well, bye! 


End file.
